


Nocturne

by alnora



Series: Fragments [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, It's all fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnora/pseuds/alnora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three stories, one theme.  Tags and rating will be updated as chapters are added.</p><p>Chapter 3: Where things turn angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whatever Works (A-Side)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, a story under 7000 words! This is a big day for me. It's still about 2000 more words than I intended, but it's progress.
> 
> Heed the fluff warning.

_3:22 AM_

 

It shouldn't be bothering him. Seriously. It's not like Cas is keeping him awake – he's having the opposite effect, in fact. Normally he has Dean promptly meeting Mr. Sandman and is out like a bear for the winter, that is until Sam knocks on the door at some god forsaken early hour of the morning neighing like the damn Clydesdale he is: “Hey Dean! So get this, I found out some new info on...” and he would continue like this, educating his brother through the door until he was sure Dean got the point to rise and shine. Cas would agree with the gargantuan horse, saying that many doings need to be accomplished that day (and whatever doings they might be, they will not be simple) and the sooner they do them the more time he has to prepare for the next day. Dean would grumble into his pillow, look at the clock, grumble again, call Cas a traitor and hoarsely yell at Sam to shut up.

 

Every morning, like clockwork.

 

Maybe he slept too well. The deep sleep that claimed him while in Cas' presence allowed him to lower his guard, to close both eyes instead of leaving one open ready for whatever demon or spook of the week decided that disturbing Dean or his brother during sleeping hours was any better than during waking hours. Having such a sweet yet immensely powerful being beside him in such a vulnerable position made it possible to relax, even if just for a little while. This was not necessarily the best habit to fall into as a hunter but his excuse was that bunker time equals happy time, to hell with unwritten protocol, he had a _bed_ now and he was going to use it.

 

Regretfully, Dean can not see into the future. He never expected to have another body lying along side him, Castiel at that, but it happened. The agreement was Cas could stay as long as he turned the other way, facing away from Dean. In the bed or along side it, still as a marble statue, staring holes into Dean gave him the heebie-jeebies and made it rather impossible to sleep. For some weeks this deal worked out too, Dean enjoying sharing a bed once again and Cas just happy to be close. But it continued to be all wrong, as the Winchester felt tonight. Beds were meant to be slept in. Well, that and sex, but tonight it's sleep. Cas should be catching the midnight train to Unconscious with him. Instead, he was staring holes in the wall he imagined was Dean. If building material could feel violated, this wall would be covering itself up with a towel and squealing for the man to turn around or blink or _something_.

 

How Dean tried to find a means of getting his perpetually alert boyfriend to relax. Rubbing circles on his back; forcing Cas into a hot shower despite the sound argument of “I do not need to shower, I'm an angel”; getting Cas drunk which was a dismal failure as the boys ran out of beer after 13 bottles; Sam teasingly suggesting that Jimmy seemed like the type of guy to drink warm milk before bed, underestimating Dean's all-consuming determination. Inconsiderate of Cas' displeasure with the taste, he forced him to drink the cup down, yielding no positive results.

 

Sex was always an option and normally would have been the _first_ option, but Dean was still feeling... apprehensive.

 

One problem at a time.

 

On the other side of the bed Castiel noticed that Dean's breathing had not steadied and he occasionally sighed or made a hum of contemplation. Worried that the human would not get his self-prescribed 4 hours, leading to a very ornery and grumpy significant other, he decided now was the best time to speak up and get some grasp on Dean's trouble.

 

“Am I keeping you awake?”

 

“Nah.” Dean reconsidered. “Actually, yes you are. You're not sleeping.”

 

Although Dean could not see, Cas squinted in confusion. “My wakefulness is keeping you from sleeping? I'm facing away from you like you asked.”

 

“That's not the...” Dean turned over onto his other side to face Cas. After several moments of silence and not taking the unspoken cue to do the same, he gently shoved his shoulder.

 

“Would you like me to leave?”

 

“I didn't mean–!” _Deep calming breaths. He knows not what he does._ Dean signed. “Just turn around, would you?”

 

Dean could not see it in the near-pitch black of his room, save for the red glow of the alarm clock, he felt the angel shift, his knees accidentally knocking into Dean's.

 

“Ah. Sorry about that,” he replied gruffly, his apology sounding no different than a statement. “Would you like me to leave?”

 

“No Cas, I don't want you to leave,” he muttered into his pillow, hoping to suffocate himself before he suffocated Castiel with it. “Just listen for a second. I can't sleep because you're awake.”

 

“I do not understand why this is a problem.”

 

“I don't understand it too much either,” Dean admitted, left foot beginning to fidget. “Beds are meant for sleeping, I guess, and it's something you can't or won't do because if I didn't try damn near everything to get you to catch some Z's. But there you are, laying there because I want you to.”

 

Cas shook his head. “That's not so. It was my decision to be here with you; you are not the only one who benefits.”

 

“Suppose it is a little nicer than being on bedside patrol.”

 

“It is.”

 

“But that's what I mean! Sleeping would be so much _nicer_.” Did that sound like a whine? Why in the hell was he whining? Good thing Cas more than likely didn't catch that. (He did.) Hoping to validate his male card again after being caught dead to rights, Dean continued more sharply. “You're here, may as well enjoy the perks.”

 

“But we have tried. Save from knocking me unconscious somehow, and we both do not prefer a method that uses spells” –Dean agreed– “it is not possible.”

 

Dean presented his tarnished male club membership card to the lodge leader and asked him to put it in a paper shredder. This is it. After this, there's no return to the club. He might as well give up the beer, give up the car and the porno and loaded dice and the guns and the greatest collection of music ever assembled by a human no matter what Sam says. There was no going back, for this was Dean's ace in the hole.

 

“Well, there is one thing I've held back. God I wish I didn't have to do this, but it's all I got left.” He cupped Cas's cheek and said with all the conviction and finality he could muster, “You have to promise me that what is about to transpire right now will not leave this room. No mention of it, no jokes, no hidden camera footage, no journal entries, no anything. I'd threaten you with something,” he chuckled, “but what the hell can I threaten you with? Best I can manage is send you away on a trip to the other side of the planet but like cute little kicked puppy dog, you'd find your way back home.”

 

“This is not the first time I have heard this kicked puppy analogy being a reference to me. How am I like a dog?”

 

“Focus here, Cassy! Now promise me, zip, nada, nothing leaves this room. Even after I'm dead and you feel like gossiping to some angel buddies of yours while you get your feathers preened. _Comprende_?”

 

“I _capiche_ ,” replied Cas, a little to sardonically for Dean's liking.

 

“I'm serious as a coronary, babe.”

 

“Dean...”

 

He sighed. “OK, OK, you won't tell. 'Course you won't tell.” Dean flipped over onto his back, mumbling “Showed him,” which made Cas smile. That was a part of Dean's charm. Being so small, so weak and flawed yet had the resolve and fearlessness of someone more powerful. In the end it more often than not lead to the most thorough of ass-kickings, but in situations like this, when the threat of death is a few yards away rather than the normal foot, it was precious. Dean was much like a cat hissing and pawing at a dog twice its size.

 

Castiel wondered if this dog analogy was similar to the other dog analogy. Maybe he would ask later.

 

“Well, um, I'm gonna need you to, uh, scooch a little closer to me. Like real close.” Castiel obliged and wiggled to close what was already a miniscule gap between him and Dean. “Now you should, I can't believe I'm saying this you better not tell anyone, put your head on my chest.”

 

There was no movement for only a short while as Cas contemplated why Dean had such difficulty saying something as simple as that, but he deferred it to Dean's tumultuous heterosexual consternation and let it pass for his sake. Cas placed his head as he was told, right on the anti-posession tattoo. He began to wonder:

 

“Should I be asleep now?”

 

Dean snaked his left arm under Cas's shoulder and pulled him closer. “Slow your role. What did I tell you about patience, Cas?”

 

“'Be patient, Cas?'” he answered, mimicking Dean's voice.

 

The Winchester barked a laugh, forgetting how sassy his otherwise gullible angel could be. Not that it didn't stop him from pinching Cas' lips together with his free hand. “No smart-assing in bed. That's a purely daytime activity. Now hush up, I'm gonna wax nostalgic on ya.”

 

Castiel wiggled his jaw back and forth to test how determined Dean was to keep him quiet until he was finished waxing nostalgic. Waxing... Would there be waxing? A sensation cannot be personified, how can it be waxed? How was he expected to sleep if Dean was speaking? Why was he allowing Dean to silence him? Why was this position so... comforting?

 

“Is it safe to unclamp you?”

 

Cas hummed in the positive. Truly, the urge to “smart-ass” or speak at all drained from him. Right now he would listen even if he wasn't particularly interested in the words that were spoken. His bare legs were tangled in Dean's and it was so perfectly satisfying. Not even Dean seemed to care.

 

Dean drew his hand away. “OK then. I guess like every other person on the planet, I have a hard time sleeping too, but it was especially bad as a kid. Had a lot of shit to keep me up back then, but this was before I was young enough to solve problems with excessive amounts of cheap booze. Taking care of Sammy, thinking about mom, moving to yet another state, watching myself slowly turning into my god damn father.”

 

The head on his chest turned up to look at him. Cas didn't say anything, but the movement was enough to draw Dean back to himself. He sniffed. “Sorry 'bout that. Straying off the course. But anyway,” he recovered. “Sometimes I'd have to try everything in the book too to get my ass to sleep; some nights called for different methods, others nothing would work. One thing we haven't tried yet for you is music. I haven't mentioned it because I know how much you detest my record collection.”

 

“It is rather detestable.”

 

“Please tell me you're grinning or have your fingers crossed when you say something like that.”

 

“...I am.”

 

“My sweet baby,” he mocked a sniffle, “he's such a good liar for me. Pretty soon he's going to be bouncing checks and hustling poker and running pyramid schemes like the big boys!”

 

“ _Continue with your remedy, Dean,_ ” Cas softly threatened.

 

“You keep making me go off track! With your sass mouth and mockery of musical perfection... Anyway. You're picky about music, right? Well, I got something that's simple enough for you. You can't find anything to complain about because you're listening to it right now.”

 

Cas pondered for a moment. “Your voice?”

 

“What, like me singing for you? Dear god no. You've heard me singing in the shower, right? Belt out a little 'Run For The Hills' and everybody runs for the hills.” Dean was not the type of man to admit shortcomings, although carrying a tune was one he unquestionably and gracefully admitted. Everything else? He was perfection and let no one tell you otherwise. “Guess again.”

 

What other sound is there other than silence? Castiel's eyes darted around the room in attempt at grasping some hint. More guns mounted on walls than regular human beings have seen in an entire lifetime. Shirts and socks and pants tossed about the room like a wild animal ripped them off their bodies. A typewriter collecting dust (the vehicle of the future Dean Winchester autobiography _Killing Demons and Self-Loathing: The Family Business_ ). A photograph of Mary and Dean which Cas had stared at for a total of 2 hours and would more the likely stare at for 2 hours more. If that was not able to put him to sleep he presumed that nothing would, but this did not answer Dean's riddle.

 

“Come on, man, you should get this. It has a good beat.”

 

“...”

 

“ _Beat?_ ”

 

“...”

 

“Holy shit Cas, really? Beat? Your head is right over it?”

 

His head was on Dean's chest, the marked ribs encasing the lungs and heart. As far as he knew, the lungs did not make much noise unless they were filled with a liquid which meant that a human was very ill or about to die. Dean did not seem to be in the throes of death, so that was not it. So that only left the heart.

 

“Heart... Your beating heart. I understand now.”

 

Is it still to late to suffocate him with a pillow? Dean thought to himself exasperatedly. Why did Cas sound so proud of himself, like a answered a $1000 question on _Jeopardy!_ correctly? “Remind me, if we ever come across a troll guarding a bridge, let me answer the questions, OK? But yeah, that's what I was getting at.”

 

“How is this supposed to help me?” Cas asked with genuine inquisitiveness.

 

“Chicks apparently love it when they fall asleep listening to their man's heartbeat. It's tender and romantic or some crap like that. The heart keeps the rhythm like a bass drum so it is like music, without the guitar solos and screeching vocals. Besides, anything is worth a shot at this point.”

 

Castiel lifted his head up to look at Dean. Details could not be made out, but he knew he was looking at Dean's eyes. “You truly wish this for me. Why?”

 

“Well,” Dean managed to get out, becoming timid under Cas's glance. “I, I want you to relax a little. You're always keeping vigil over me and Sam but right now you're in bed with me. This should be your off-hours. If we're all in a position where sleep _is_ possible, we should take it. I dunno. I just... want you to. Alright? Sound good enough?”

 

“Yes, Dean. That will do.”

 

Dean nodded ever-so slightly and used his free hand to press Cas' head gingerly back onto him. “What we're both going to do now is shut our pie holes while you close your eyes and focus on not focusing. Just listen to my heartbeat, OK?”

 

“I will try.”

 

Dean paused momentarily trying to decide whether or not to say something, but in the end he blurted it out.

 

“I hope it works.”

 

The mission was well underway by then. Eyes glued shut and head pressed so close to Dean his chest might cave in, Castiel waited and listened. He would not tell Dean he thought this scheme to be asinine, that something as simplistic and childish as this could not render a creature such as himself to sleep. But he did not have the heart to deny Dean this act of compliance, either, for lately the man had not asked much of him. No blood-lettings and trips to the ends of the earth for ritual materials, no unnecessary teleportation. The teasing was still unrelenting, but Cas had long since come to terms that it was how both boys showed camaraderie and affection. He was still getting the knack for dishing out the verbal abuse rather than suffer alone. Insults in the language he had been created knowing did not translate well into English. More to learn, more trials to test his patience.

 

Futile attempts at normalcy they may be, he would still try for Dean's sake. He was willing to try anything to make his human more at ease with him. The way Cas knew things could be if certain circumstances were different. Perhaps this is something he could teach Dean in the future, to stop holding back emotions or thoughts for whatever reason he feels compelled to bury them. It is not his desire to change the very core of who Dean Winchester is because that is the man whom he saved and the man whom he came to love, but much like he wanted Cas to relax, Cas wanted Dean to untie his tongue. Not permanently... In the safety of a bedroom or car, maybe.

 

This was not what Dean wanted from him. He was supposed to be quiet, in voice and mind. Dean once again became his center.

 

Five minutes later Dean asked, becoming more drowsy by the second, “Sleepin' yet?”

 

“I too have trouble tuning out my conscious mind,” Cas said meekly. “Many memories... thoughts... that I do not like being reminded of.”

 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Dean ran his hand through Cas's hair slower than he intended, forgetting just how silky soft it was. Either Jimmy had superb genetics or Cas was secretly using Sammy's conditioner. “Just let it happen because we can't stop 'em. We've been through too much crap for breathing exercises and yoga to cure our ills. Just come back to me, 'K?”

 

Cas nodded into Dean's hand and exhaled, tossing an arm over Dean's waist. Dean did not notice as sleep finally took him. 

 

* * *

 

_5:11 AM_

 

Dean awoke with a snort remembering to check up on Castiel. There wasn't a message from a dream, not really, only that little start you get when you recall with a brilliant flash that you left the stove on at home or that devil's trap may or may not have a hairline fracture in it.

 

He wiped the sleep out of his eyes and checked the time on the clock. _Two hours, huh?_ Even if Cas were not able to succeed in passing out, he'd lay there until Dean woke up, in the same position like he did everyday. Patience running dry an hour and forty minutes ago he was quite sure, Cas probably gave up and settled for wall gazing. Well, it wouldn't hurt to ask.

 

“Hey Cas?”

 

No reply.

 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Cas? You awake?”

 

Again, no reply.

 

No way. The bastard did it? He finally found a way to make the smart-ass silent on a momentary basis? Dean resisted shaking him to confirm this as he did not know if angels were notoriously light sleepers or not. This moment was not going to be fudged on his behalf.

 

Unfortunately he could not reach the light switch to observe the fruits of his labor but instead raised a celebratory fist in the air before joining Cas instantaneously.


	2. A Knight's Armor (B-Side)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after A-Side. Castiel dreams and wonders why, while Dean fails to cope with simple curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say about this one. I'm not too happy with out it came out compared to what I envisioned in my head, but eh. Enjoy the ending.

_7:02 AM_

 

It wasn't the sounds of bluebirds squawking that awoke Dean this morning from a pleasantly dreamless sleep, but rather a dull thud emanating from the corner of his room. The absence of a warm body next to him signaled a stray angel, but it didn't make manifest to his sleep-hazed mind that it could be him making the racket. Perhaps Cas was... What else would he be doing? He's not using the bathroom nor would he be making breakfast as he was under strict orders from both brothers to resist the temptation to cook or bake without their supervision, or until they stored away or fire-proofed valuables around the bunker. The road to hell and third degree burns is paved with Castiel's good intentions.

 

Dean uncovered his head and pulled down the blanket far enough to reach a hand to the bedside lamp, missing once, twice, before finding the switch. “'s too bright,” he griped, covering his eyes with a forearm until they adjusted.

 

“I apologize for waking you, Dean,” Cas smoothly said as if he had not been sleeping or had fallen asleep for the first time in his existence. He sure knows how to show his excitement. “It is difficult to maneuver in these tight quarters in darkness.”

 

“That's why you turn lights on,” Dean retorted, still using his arm as a shield.

 

“This would have woken you.”

 

“So would the sound of you faceplanting after tripping over my boots. Pretty sure you wouldn't want to humiliate yourself by doing something like that, right?”

 

“I... suppose you're correct.” There was a brief rustle of fabric. “If both outcomes would be the same.”

 

Dean stretched out his legs, moaning in relief. “Next time you want to get up and raid the fridge, clap on, alright? I won't tear off your head if you wake me up.”

 

“OK, Dean.” Another rustle.

 

Curiosity finally got the better of Dean. He leaned up onto his elbows and asked, “What the hell are you doing over there?” And then he saw what the hell Cas was doing over there.

 

Bedhead was an understatement as Cas's raven locks were for the most part sticking straight up; he must have fallen from his perch on Dean's chest during the course of the night and wiggled around more than a worm on a hook. Messy hair was not the issue as Dean saw the rest of Cas.

 

“Why do... Why are you wearing my clothes?”

 

Dumbfounded wasn't the right word. Neither was stupefied. Flabbergasted? Yes, flabbergasted sounded like a pretty good term to use. This was not the first time Dean had seen Cas out of the monkey suit and coat, like when he inherited Sam's insanity and he went by the name Emanuel, as well as joining Dean in bed with nothing on but a pair of briefs that left painfully little to the imagination, but this was... different. Those jeans, those were _Dean's_. Those were on his body only hours before, now on Cas, only slightly loose in the leg, sinking painfully, sinfully, tempestuously over his hips, dipping to what Dean has seen but never considered as much as he did now.

 

This is a most troubling scene to wake to.

 

“I did this in my dream,” Castiel stated as if it made any sense.

 

Dean's eyes traveled to Cas' navel and responded in a daze. “So you had a dream, huh?” His mouth was way too dry.

 

“Yes.” He bent down to retrieve a wrinkled navy blue button-up from the foot of the bed, observing it with a assiduous eye. “In it, I wore your garments like it was commonplace. The clothing was not something I had bought, either. They were unquestionable yours.” He could recall himself thinking _This shirt smells of Dean_ , and the fashionable rips and tears were not manufactured but earned from the tearing and scratching and slicing for monsters and demons alike. Frayed denim, a jacket with a sleeve hanging by mere threads, yet he wore them like he did his own, no one questioning it.

 

This is the point where Dean would have used the combination of his tongue and guttural vibrations for what is commonly referred to as “speaking,” but his mind was lost to the void of space as his eyes remained transfixed on Cas' abdomen.

 

After turning the balled-up shirt in his hands and coming to an agreement that it would suffice, Cas unrolled it and proceeded to put it on himself. “Dean, are you not feeling well? Your face is becoming flushed.”

 

As Cas lifted up his arms to slide them through the sleeves, the skin over his stomach and sharp hipbones stretched, jeans slinking slightly lower–

 

Dean blinked. “Um, what?”

 

Shirt unbuttoned, Cas walked over to Dean's side of the bed and bent forward, their faces close to touching. Dean could only watch, nearly cross-eyed, as the distressingly inquisitive angel placed a palm on his forehead. “You are warm. Do you need a cold compress and aspirin?”

 

“The hell? No, I'm not sick, Cas.” He brushed the hand away from his face and sat up, making sure to tug the sheets securely in place on his lap. Now how could he rationally explain his full body flush? He was too warm under the thin sheets? No. Thinking of something stressful? That was true, but Cas would want elaboration so that answer wouldn't do.

 

“I'm... um...”

 

_Smooth pale skin, I look so good on you, hair a mess like I pulled it while we were_

 

Dean groaned, mind crawling to catch up with him to tell him to silence the sound he was making. When the message was relayed, the groan melted into “Damnit.” _Playin' it smooth, Winchester, just like a 14-year-old boy._ He took a deep breath and turned up to the ceiling, needing a moment to piece together a sentence longer than two words. This was all so embarrassing...

 

Castiel was also turning the gears in his head to figure out what precisely was tormenting his human. He was of a positive disposition only hours before. Now he could not even face him. If Dean was distressed and the cause was not generated from within, the affliction was from without. Like himself.

 

“Have I done something to provoke this?”

 

“Kind of. I mean...” He looked back to Cas -right in the eye, fearing to tread anywhere else- and gestured frantically with both hands toward the man beside him with the faintest hint of hurt in his eyes.

 

“I do not understand.”

 

“You, man! You're... dressed in my damn clothes.”

 

“I've angered you.” Cas looked down at himself. “This was silly, having a dream dictate my actions like a false prophet. I don't know what I was expecting from this.”

 

Dean grabbed Cas' wrist and gave it a gentle shake. “You didn't piss me off. A little startled, yeah, but not angry. What were you hoping to accomplish from doing this, anyway?”

 

“I'm not sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

“Know what I think?” Castiel unnecessarily shook his head. “I think you're tryin' to find logic to a new experience. Dreams aren't supposed to make sense. Cats fly, you're the main character in a movie you've seen a ton of times, I sing and play guitar. It's just your brain firing off images at you, nothing more.” Dean shrugged. “So you tried on the emperor's clothing, so what? That's one of the least exciting dreams I've ever heard. Now if we were both rock-climbing while 'Livin' on a Prayer' was playing in the background and all a sudden robot ninjas un-camouflaged themselves from the rock face and started to chase after us, but your _line_ snaps–“

 

“It sounds like you've had this dream before.”

 

“I haven't, but I kind of want to...” Dean said wistfully.

 

Cas crinkled his nose. “Why would you want that? And why are we climbing rocks?”

 

“Because it sounds _awesome_!” Dean beamed. “Trust me, if you were human you'd totally agree on how awesome it would be. The crazier the dreams the better.”

 

“I am more than content with this type of dreaming,” Castiel said softly, playing with the sleeves of the shirt.

 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Did anything else happen that you're not telling me?”

 

“I know what that tone means. We did not do anything of a sexual nature. But I... I like this, Dean.”

 

“You like ransacking my closet?”

 

“No, I like...” He huffed and stood up, frustrated about not being able to say things more vividly. “I like the way it makes me feel. Not the material, that means nothing and to be honest with you, denim and this shirt's blend are not as enjoyable as the TV ads make them seem, which leads me to believe that not everything I have seen on television may be factual.” Eyes squinted, he replayed in his mind the images of fast food and automobiles that could in fact be lying about their quality. Why was it necessary to trick the public in such a way? Was Gabriel not dead but instead a network CEO who chose which commercials to air on whichever station he owned?

 

“Babe, you're rambling.”

 

Cas snapped back to reality. He would have to contemplate these important questions later. “I, I am sorry. As I was saying, the clothing is nothing to me, but having them means very much.” Before Dean could ask what in the hell he meant by them, Cas reached for the amulet around Dean's neck. “Like this. I know you would never let me borrow this again, but it is only an example. This, this gift, means absolutely everything to you, right?”

 

“Damn right it does,” Dean said with conviction.

 

“Hypothetically,” Castiel used air quotes, “say you let me wear this one day, for an hour, for the day, the time doesn't matter. Do you know what that would mean to me? For you to share something so important to you with me? Something you cherish just as much as the person who gave it to you?”

 

“I understand that, but what does this have to do about my pants?”

 

“It's...” His eyes drifted to the corner of the room and the faintest of shy smiles appeared on his face. “It's a part of you. You and, well, many others, identify me by my coat and tie, correct? I identify you by what you wear. There's the Dean that dresses as an FBI agent, or the Dean who wears a blanket around his shoulders–“

 

“For the last time, man, it's a _serape.”_

 

“–or the Dean wears an orange jumpsuit to sneak into a prison. But this,” he looked down at himself, “is what you revert to. The jeans, the shirts, this is your comfort. It's a part of you and in a childish way, I'm experiencing it. When you wear this I know I am getting Dean and not a false identity with the name of an aging rock and roll musician.”

 

“Nothing wrong with a little homage to the greats.” He yawned and rub some sleep from his eye. “So, what you're basically trying to tell me is you like to wrap yourself up in a Dean security blankie.”

 

“I suppose so.” Castiel reconsidered. “No. It is more of a reminder than an aegis.”

 

“That so? What do my scraps remind you of?”

 

Cas shoved his hands into the jean's pockets and rocked back on his heels, beginning to feel playful in his replies to Dean. “Of you. It says to me that you trust me enough, you tolerate me to do something ludicrous as this because in all honesty, this is very silly.”

 

Dean laughed. Cas did have a point there.

 

“Also, I learned shortly ago that you want me to do this.”

 

Dean stopped his laughter cold. “I, um, beg your pardon?”

 

He didn't mean to tease Dean like he was now, but the opportunity was presented to him so simply. Cas would be a fool not to take this chance as he would not be allowed many more. He slowly walked to the end of the bed, directly in front of Dean. “I may be too ignorant and chaste for my own good, but my ability to deduce has not suffered.” He leaned forward and fisted the sheets.

 

 _The bastard is enjoying this,_ Dean thought. _He knows I know he knows that I was blushing because the stupid bastard angel looks so good._ A predatory posture and a devilish glint of blue told him that Dean set himself up for this and the stupid bastard angel was going to take the ball and run. Sometime today he was going to paint angel sigils on every flat surface of his dresser to prevent this torment from happening again.

 

But on the other hand, he could not deny himself this pleasure.

 

“Asking me questions like I was a fool for wanting this was your only way to repress your arousal.” He yanked the sheet completely off the bed then, eliciting a cry from Dean who then covered himself with his hand despite already being covered by a pair of shorts. Castiel has a scrutinizing eye this morning so any extra coverage helped, right?

 

“Damnit, you're making the bed today!”

 

“I do not care,” Cas stated as he then crawled to Dean and rested on his thighs. The denim was certainly more restrictive than his slacks were, but it was something he was willing to get used to. For moments like this, anyway. He grabbed Dean's wrists firmly and pulled them away from himself, as a gentle show of dominance. Dean's attention is what he wanted now.

 

By a rather shameful display of uneasiness, humiliation and desire, it seemed the plan was working perfectly.

 

“Cas, um... are... What's this about?” _And for the love of Sam, please don't wiggle around, don't wiggle, just don't move at all._

 

“A thought just occurred to me,” Cas said carefully, intertwining his fingers with Dean's who peculiarly gripped back, maybe because it seemed like the natural thing to do. “The clothing I wear is mere accessory.”

 

“How do...” Dean paused to swallow and find his voice proper. “How do you mean?”

 

“I already have a body, well, of sorts. It does not lack form but rather substance. One may consider this vessel my outerwear. I do not wear it as humans normally don clothing for foul weather does not affect us and we do not share your prevailing abhorrence of nudity.”

 

“Trust me, some people should by no means ever be naked,” Dean grinned, trying to reclaim some of his personality.

 

“That is besides the point,” Cas acknowledged testily. “I wear this flesh for you. The reason I have this is _because_ of you. James Novak gave me a gift and I refuse to squander it.”

 

Dean barked an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, because your time here on Earth has been all lollipops and sunshine.”

 

“I have made many mistakes here on Earth, yes,” Castiel gripped Dean's hands tighter, “but I do not consider this one of them. I will never consider it to be one.” He then brought those hands to his waist and released, Dean's hands having no intention of leaving Cas' bare skin. “You share your armor, your clothing, with me. I want to share mine with you.”

 

Dean's mind short-circuited with the intent: Cas just propositioned him. _My body is yours._ He couldn't breathe. He forgot how to breathe. It was something Dean always knew as the sharing of bodies and bodily fluids are normal in relationships, but dating angels, especially Castiel Angel of the Lord, hearing it being said in his own words, from his lips, sent his damn heart in a tailspin.

 

Seven in the morning was too early for this. He still had morning breath, his body was still stiff, sleep still in his eyes and there was man with big blue eyes as bright as the god damn sky he came from and professionally messy hair on his lap, admitting to him that whenever Dean was ready, he was too. It too early to process this information.

 

As badly as he wanted to reply, he could not find the words. One half of him wanted for absolutely nothing more than to press the angel's mouth to his have Cas wrap his legs around his waist and _he just fucking couldn't_. The other half of him... cowered. All Dean could do was stare back, running scenarios in his head.

 

Castiel smiled warmly, one that went straight to Dean's chest. “I know why you hesitate... Please do not think it bothers me. My offer stands.”

 

“No, Cas, it's not that. I really need to ex–“

 

Dean was cut off by a rapid knocking at the door. “Cas! Dean! Stop making out in there and get up! I was doing some research on a couple suspicious murder cases in Ohio and Missouri and get this...”


	3. Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seen and unseen. Bright eyes and phony smiles can be your mask for only so long. Let us be lonely together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a request of sorts that I'm putting at the end of this fic, one that had a pretty big impact on the verse and the direction I may or may not go in, so any input you may have would be really appreciated.

The air-conditioning in the dingy and quaint motel room was set to “restaurant grade walk-in freezer” at Dean's behest, but Castiel paid no mind to it and was in fact bare from the chest up as this is how he normally sleeps, blankets covering only a tiny faction of his legs. Whatever Cas wasn't using was taken greedily by the other who cocooned himself rather snugly, enjoying the contrast in temperatures.

 

Neither man was sleeping, not yet. Castiel would take a few moments to prepare himself every night before trying to sleep for whatever dreams he may have, though it would never work. Perhaps it was the variations, how frustratingly odd they were from one manifestation to the next. One night would appear as any normal day -normal for him- on earth, with a dead demon here and a pie there. Some nights Gabriel would appear and those, _those_ were the dreams he'd wake up from and feel as if he had been forcefully ripped from his vessel and shoved back in like a turducken. Sometimes Cas would miss his brother. These were not any of those times.

 

And the other nights... Nightmares, similar to the ones he recalled Dean having. Reliving past experiences as an outsider, watching foolish decisions being made and not being able to stop himself, no matter how loudly he yelled or how many times his fists would slide clean through the shadow of his hallucination. Guilt given a form. Recalling the deaths of his brothers and sisters because _he_ caused it, recalling the betrayal on Dean's face because _he_ caused it, something that could have been avoided if he just...

 

But this was all natural, wasn't it? It's just as Dean said it would be; images that he could not prevent from appearing. So why sleep at all? Why add to the turmoil inside? Because Dean wanted it? Maybe, maybe that was partially true, but why else?

 

When the dreams go well When he undoes the wrongs and when Dean isn't troubled by his own. When there aren't any demons or monsters or threats of death, where Sam and Dean hunt no longer and Sam never drank blood and Dean never went to hell to torture and be tortured. No Leviathans. No Purgatory. When Cas had to courage to stay, to stop being such a damn insufferable idiot and stay where he was needed Those dreams, however rare and fleeting, were worth it. It was as close to Heaven as he was ever going to get.

 

Dean, meanwhile, was meditating on Cas's back and debating on whether to bring up a silly question or not. No dreams here, just an inquiry in angel anatomy. Would Cas mind if he asked? Would he mind if he touched?

 

“Hey, Cas?”

 

“Yes, Dean.”

 

“I have a, um, strange request, but humor me would ya?”

 

Castiel turned his head to the side in curiosity, though still unable to see Dean from the position he was in. “That depends.”

 

“All you have to do is lay on your stomach.” Dean kicked and pushed down the layers of blankets and sat up with a grunt, prepared even if Cas was not. It wasn't like Cas had to do anything, he hardly needed to move, so he should agree without incident, right?

 

“You were correct to say it would be a strange request. Might I ask why you would like me to do this?”

 

“I just...” He gesticulated with his arms to continue but to no avail. “Just do it, Cas. Move them lazy birdy bones of yours.”

 

Cas resisted. “Why will you not tell me w– _mmph_ ,” he muffled into the pillow as Dean pushed him down by the shoulder. Dean grinned slightly as Cas paused due to his insolence. “You did not find it necessary to warn me before doing that?”

 

“I gave you an order, you treasonous bastard. Lucky I didn't honorably discharge you out of the bed.” He ruminated his words as he proceeded to sit on the back of Castiel's thighs in a kneeling position. “Huh. Well, I guess I still could discharge you, if you know what I mean. Of course you do; you watch more porn than I do.” Dean leaned forward to whisper in the angel's ear. “Don't you think I don't know about the military fetish stuff, either.” He rose back up and playfully ran a hand through Cas' hair. This was one of life's simple joys, making fun of Cas's addiction, or “study” as he put it, of pornography. It made Dean's viewings almost seem non-existent. Not as if he did much of that anymore.

 

Castiel snickered but otherwise did not offer any resistance to Dean's ribbing. “You call _me_ a child. And you caught me only that one time, so that cannot equate to a fetish,” he added with a pout.

 

“No no, Cas, I understand. You gotta promise me, though: if you wear my clothes, I'll snag myself some marine duds and we'll make the only porno you'll ever need. I'll even provide the soundtrack.”

 

“Dean...”

 

“No need to thank me. I'll throw that in for free.”

 

Cas sighed. “We have never had sex and in your mind we have progressed as far as to record it.”

 

“Yeah... yeah, I know,” Dean smiled hopelessly. “You only have yourself to blame, being so damned cute. It's been -god, I can't believe I'm telling this sob story- a long time since I've felt comfortable enough to goof off again. Our lives have never been much of a primetime sitcom with the canned laughs and a story neatly wrapped up in twenty minutes, but since around the time dad died and we dealt with Yellow Eyes...” He trailed off and shook his head, still not believing he was saying these things out loud. A good kick in the ass is what he deserved right about now. “...things changed. Too many things changed _us_ is what I mean.”

 

Cas merely listened when Dean became like this. It was becoming a semi-daily occurrence as Dean became more at ease in the relationship and trust was earned back. Through all the loving words, beyond the soft eyes and earned glances, the embraces and kisses, Dean would never forget the betrayals, all the prayers left unanswered and fights that Cas thought were his and his alone, not knowing help was there all along and all he had to do was stay. Dean wanted Cas to stay and that was all he ever wanted. Wrestling with his own feelings but still needing Cas anyway, to keep the incorrigible angel in check, caring in his own false phlegmatic way because family doesn't end with blood. He was family, but that reality didn't seep in until it was too late.

 

So Cas would listen, knowing that Dean would never be as vulnerable as he was when talking about the past. Naked and prostrate, it could not compare to his soul seeping through the cracks. To offer Dean any sort of solace was more than Cas deserved and something he was not sure he could provide him, but as these sessions became more frequent the realization that he was truly on the road to redemption became more and more plausible. In fact, it may be the cause for Dean's intimacy dilemma, but he would not dare to pursue this suspicion; he could not risk undoing the progress he has made.

 

“I'm not the man I used to be and, shit, I can see the change so badly in Sammy it feels like I get punched in the throat every time I look at him. We used to prank each other all the time,” Dean's voice raised in reminiscence. “Killing monsters and bug hoards and ghosts and we could still laugh about it over dinner. All we had to do was track down dad, right? Deal with the mooks he left in his wake, we find him and everything goes back to being peachy. We were so idealistic then... and absolutely oblivious.”

 

He stopped himself there, not having the compulsion to continue. No more. That was enough. Talking was not going to help this night and it was time to focus on something else: What led him to straddle Cas in the first place.

 

One finger lightly trailed Cas' spine, from the base of the neck to the very tip of his tailbone. Dean did this once more, this time more slowly, pausing at every knob and if he were counting them. This was one of many things Dean did to him that baffled Cas but he could sense so clearly and powerfully that Dean was immersed in his thoughts, perhaps continuing his monologue, that he could not interrupt.

 

Instead, after repeating the motion two more times, Dean asked quietly:

 

“What are they like?”

 

“They?”

 

“Yeah. You know...” Dean brushed his thumb in the space between Cas's shoulder blades. The result was an involuntary shudder from Cas, just on the edge of perceivable. Well, that was something new. Was this his first encounter with an angelic erogenous zone? Maybe not, but Cas still does not consider that encounter as fornicating with a truly embodied angel, but Dean still believes that Cas is envious of him not being Dean's first encounter whether he admits it to himself or not. This is nothing unexpected from a relationship, any relationship, but the conditions are a tad bit diverse and damnit if Dean's middle name wasn't Normal.

 

After mentally assessing what that convulsion meant, Cas recognized what Dean was referring to. “You mean my wings.”

 

Dean nodded, hand still rubbing skin. “I know it seems a little hokey to ask that, but I am a lowly and insignificant human who can't help himself.”

 

“To ask me that is akin to me asking you what your skin is like or your fingernails. It is a part of what I have always been and do not consider it at all until they are mentioned.”

 

“But asking unreasonable questions is what we meat puppets do best,” he chided. “So cough up some examples, Roma Downey. First thing that pops into your head.”

 

“Well,” Castiel seriously considered, “humans do seem to greatly exaggerate the purpose of our appendages. They do not aid in flight at all. Take for example the brief glimpses you have had of them. Though they are merely shadows of their full potential, I can still will them into existence in the physical plane given the correct circumstance, such as high stress or any emotional duress, much like a cobra extends its hood or a variety of mammals that use their fur to appear larger.”

 

Dean nodded. “So even angels have to use intimidation tactics, huh?”

 

“Yes. An angel's divine power is feared by all–“ His breath caught in his throat and eyes widened as Dean's feather-light caresses became so... so very satisfying. A peculiar but pleasant sensation, as sensual as a kiss but one that sent a shock through his body. The shock must have been tangible because Dean gave a quick laugh.

 

“You still with me? Gonna try to buck me off?”

 

Cas fumbled with his words, baffled that he could not control himself due to such simple contact. Was this a sensitivity Jimmy had or something all his own? Best not to think of that now and continue. “I... um, have regained my composure. As I was saying–“ Dean now began to trace any and all designs and patterns he could recall along his shoulder blades– “despite angels being exceptionally powerful, our vessels can lack menace, so we 'puff ourselves up' as it were, a flicker to remind our enemies of our authority.”

 

A flash of a dark-haired man striding through a rain of sparks entering a warehouse covered in the graffiti of every ward under the sun except the one that was needed. Wings a shadow in the dark, a manifestation of a strength beyond demons. A choking presence.

 

The same wings and the same possessive, penetrating eyes that have traversed his dreams ever since.

 

“I forget how formidable you can be sometimes, but then I see you shivering under me when I give you a back rub and think to myself that the most adorable angel in the garrison can in no way be the same guy.” Dean raised his voice as if speaking to a baby. If Cas were facing him, he would have pinched his cheeks. Cas, though, despised it when Dean treated him as is he were a child. Such a tone never went unnoticed.

 

“That is precisely why we flare our wings: to proclaim that we are not... adorable,” Cas mumbled quietly, embarrassed to say such a thing. To call a servant of God such an undignified nickname would have been grounds for smiting only years ago. Since then he has been called much worse, a good portion of them from the man next to him. Some days Cas prays to his Father for the answer of why he has been unable to smite Dean. He was no longer the vessel of Micheal and damnit, sometimes Dean needs to be struck by lightning for the ways he acts and for shameful taunting.

 

“Adorable isn't my style, man, but it's the only way I can explain you. You just are. Not only the body you use,” Dean added, “but, uh...” He pulled his hand away finally, resting on his own thighs. What precisely was Cas again? “Your... wavelength. Energy. Celestial embodiment of– god damnit, whatever the hell you are.”

 

“Do you speak of my personality?”

 

“What?” Dean spat out bewildered. “You? Personality? That's a negatory. You're as lively as a sponge sometimes.”

 

“Why do you insist on having me around?” Cas asked derisively.

 

“Like I said. It's, you know, kind of cute. For you. Schooling you in pop culture, how your face lights up when you discover something. I like watching you adapt, I guess.”

 

He sighed. He was doing it again, wasn't he? Straying off into Hallmark movie territory. All of this bullshit about being cute and the joy of a simple smile. It was not necessarily a bad thing to feel this way, but the ease and quickness of falling into such habits was troubling. The relationship is new, he tells himself, and he's trying to find his footing, touching before putting his full weight onto the ledge. His amorous mood swings will balance out with nights like this. At least that was the plan.

 

Next time, because he was sure it would happen very soon, he would let himself continue. See where it lead to, and to time how long before be became a flustered babbling wreck of a man. That was what frightened him the most, wasn't it? Castiel's reaction, or lack of reaction, to such rants. Would Dean be able to handle it? Cas did have the inclination to be sarcastic when a statement _seemed_ obvious, but cracking jokes was not something he did casually. Pity, maybe? Yeah, he might. Dean's entire life was an enormous sob story with every year contributing another chapter. With all the angel has witnessed and his own problems in heaven, for him to console and coddle Dean for such a petty emotional grievance would be worse than any laughter. His father's voice remained to echoed deeply in his mind.

 

Castiel shifting underneath him distracted him enough to stop his father before he began. As he began to twist his body to lay on his back again Dean leaned up onto his knees to remove himself, but before he could Cas breathed out a simple “No” before coming to rest.

 

“You may sit again if you want, Dean.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I would not have said that if I did not want you do,” Cas said pointedly.

 

Dean purred whimsically. “Oh my sweet Cassy, you sure do know how to many a girl weak in the knees.” He put his hands on his hips and looked down at Cas expectantly. “So what now?”

 

The yellow light shining outside beside the window illuminated the room in an ugly hue, but allowed Dean to see ever minutely Cas wet his lips and close his eyes. “What do you imagine they look like?”

 

“What, your wings?”

 

The angel nodded.

 

“I never thought about it much before.” Which was a lie of the highest degree. Since the time Castiel introduced himself as an angel Dean wondered what they looked like, felt like. That was a natural association to have for a human, right? _Oh, you're an angel, what's it like having wings? Are they white like in paintings? Do you use them to fly like a bird? Do you shed feathers?_ As it currently stood, Dean knew the answer to two of those questions; shedding did not occur naturally but feathers could be plucked, albeit painfully, from an angel, the item being a component in potent spells.

 

A quick quirk of Cas' lips signified that he did not buy the fib but said nothing otherwise. The Winchester did not know the full extent of conscious information he had, not only of what he experienced from Dean of his rescue from Hell but what he could feel from his dreams. Castiel would for no reason venture into them without Dean's prior consent, but in such a vulnerable state Dean was unable to control his emotions and the pained mumbles of revisiting painful memories. Not all of them were bad, though, and Cas would take much joy in his empathetic abilities here. To peel off the layers of the human's battered psyche was a goal he committed to privately and one he would finish, no matter what the future of both men held.

 

“First thing that pops into your head,” Cas repeated mechanically, as he did when mocking. His eyes remained closed.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean murmured at the gentle jest, “I get it.” Where in the hell should he start? “Your wings... Well, I guess what stands out the most to me is the color. They _have_ no color. You know how they say black holes absorb even light? That's how I imagine you. Like wing-shaped holes cut out in the air. Can hardly even see the details of feathers.” That sounds about right.

 

“The length? The texture?”

 

“Why does it always come down to length?” Dean tittered. “I never really considered the wingspan. I imagine them folded up like a bird. Wait, let me dignify that a little for you: like a badass eagle, zapping demons for America. Tough crowd,” he lamented as being compared to a vicious raptor got no rise from the devoid-of-joy angel. “Anyway, when you fold them up against your back, they're _long_. Like they're almost touching the floor. Nothing bulky either; very streamline. Nothing too burdensome, even if you do have the coordination of a beached whale.”

 

“I did not mean to knock over dinner that night, Dean.”

 

“I know you didn't, but you did. It was like a siren pulling you in, singing that food looks better on the floor. She must sing well because Sammy's mystery substance casserole took a nosedive and you were on the receiving end of his bitch fits for once. It's pretty hilarious from an outsider's perspective.” Dean shot Cas a toothy grin as he opened his eyes.

 

“I did not enjoy cleaning the mess up.” Sam had forbade the use of mojo to rid of the lost dinner, Dean encouraging it. Five trash bags, a trash bin that had to be rinsed out, twenty trees-worth of paper towels and a very disgruntled Cas were all the victims of this affair. Dean sat in the corner of the kitchen nearly hysterical as Cas cursed under his breath in a language Dean was ignorant to, picking up pieces of shattered plates and sopping up whatever meatless, lactose free, flavor free bits of the deceased meal he could.

 

Dean shrugged. “A man makes a mess, a man cleans up, and yes on this occasion you are a man. No angel freeloaders on my watch.”

 

“I did not like it.”

 

“Adorable, Cas. Adorable.”

 

With a mischievous glint in his eyes like the child he was, Cas couldn't remain irritated with the human whom suffered a debilitating case of schadenfreude. If a small discomfort brought him some small amount of joy...

 

“Dean, may I ask you why you envision my wings as being black?”

 

“No specific reason, really. White is cliché, and gray and brown don't seem to fit you at all. Unless there are some designer colors I don't know about.”

 

Apprehension clouded Castiel features as he looked aside. “I may know why. You... remember me as I was then.”

 

“Like when you–“

 

“When I rescued you from Hell, yes. My body could withstand the traverse to that destination easily but my grace...” He shook his head harshly, trying to thrash the vivid memories from his mind. “It was burning, Dean. I was on fire from the inside. Our grace, our bodies, our _beings_ , were never meant to inhabit such an environment, especially the length I stayed to enter Hell, find you, retrieve you and bring you back to yourself. The longer I stayed the more pain I felt. No part of me was safe there.

 

“The damage to my grace was repaired over time but...” He stopped, feeling very conscious of the area Dean was touching only minutes before and only then did the ache return. “This was something I could never reclaim.”

 

A grim, heartrending reality struck Dean. “Your wings were scorched.” He cursed and rubbed the back of his head. “You almost destroyed yourself because of me.”

 

Cas was quick to rebut. “ _For_ you, Dean. I knew what was going to happen to me so do not further guilt yourself. You did not force my hand. Instead, despise those who gave me the orders and me for listening to them.” He strained himself to smile, willing himself to put on a flippant face for Dean's sake. It is not as painful as it sounds, Dean. I do not mind the disfigurement, Dean. That is pure vanity. I was following orders, Dean. I was following orders.

 

Dean's voice began to waver; no matter what Castiel told him, he would blame himself. Orders or whatever bullshit excuse Cas could think of, Dean was still the cause. “But, but that doesn't explain how I knew.”

 

Aggravation and torment were heavy in Dean's voice. Cas laid a comforting hand on his bare thigh, as cold as the air but always affirming and radiating familiarity. “When you awoke in the coffin after I returned your soul, you saw a brief flash of light. You may not remember, but unconsciously you do and it comes as a shock to me to be honest with you. But you did. For a fraction of a second, a time so short it could hardly be measured,” Castiel said in awe, “you saw me. You perceived me, to be precise. Between a state of living and death as you were in I suppose such a thing could happen, but to retain knowledge of it...”

 

“Truly a marvel.” Dean's voice remained heavy with guilt. “You dive into Hell _willingly_ to save my sorry ass, risking your own, hardly make it out alive and I'm the one getting praise because I opened my eyes and saw the damage I did to you. Cas, I...” He looked Castiel straight in the eyes, pleading, imploring for help. “I wish I could see the same things you see in me.”

 

“Dean, you–“

 

The time for words was over. Castiel could shout and scream, prattle on for days singing of Dean's praises, all the good he has done, the lives he has saved, a soul shining so bright as to shroud all others around him, never considering himself in any of his decisions lest his sacrifice benefit someone else, but Dean would hear not a word. A lifetime of this outlook could not be erased in mere months or years, Cas knew, but it did not make matters easier. He wanted nothing more than to slap Dean so hard Sam would feel it, embrace him and resound _you are beautiful, you are worth it, even if you are a fool._

 

A grown man, a lost and forlorn child who found love in a bottle and a reason to live doing something his father was unwilling to do in protecting his baby brother. The self-deprecating humor to gloss over pains just as foul as anything he received in Hell. A short skirt, a pretty face in the back of the Impala, I'm alive now, right, show me that you need me. Please, someone need me. I'm doing this to you right now, I'm making you feel good. Need me. Say I'm not worthless. Say I'm not the cause. I'm helping. I'm doing a good job, doing what needs to be done because no one else is stupid enough to do it.

 

Castiel could always feel Dean's soul receding, shrinking away and scrambling to the labyrinthine maze of blockades and bulwarks sets up around his mind. But Cas did not mind becoming lost, too. Crossing bramble-covered pathways in inky darkness, no matter how long it took, to find him. Sure they would probably get lost on the way out, but Cas had Dean. They would work it out together, enduring scratches, falls and wrong turns. Dean deserved to break free from the self-imposed prison. And Cas? He would redeem himself. He would become a man Dean would never have to second guess again, leading him to safety because Father that's all he wanted, nothing else. Devoting himself to the one man who should have had it so many years before.

 

A gentle hand trailed up the front of Dean's black t-shirt and grabbed at his shoulder. Before Dean could protest, to preach of his unworthiness, Cas was pulling his body down until he capture Dean's lips with his own. He braced both hands besides Castiel's head and pushed away. “Cas, you shouldn't...”

 

“Yes,” was his only reply as Cas wrapped his arms around Dean, pulling him flush against his own body. Several minutes passed by and nothing was said between them, the angel continuing to read Dean's anguish even as he turned his head aside. The air conditioner rattled loudly from next to the front door. Did it ever used to be so noisy? Sam could probably fix that, not that it was his problem to deal with.

 

Cas's face nudged against his own, trying to coax Dean's attention back to him. Warm hands traveled up his back until his arms were hooked underneath and pushed down again. With resistance still remaining, Dean nevertheless met Cas halfway, arms collapsing. Fucking idiotic angel, why did he insist on this? Better yet, why was Dean not walking away?

 

His body was warm, defying the laws of nature, body so close and comforting. Lips way too experienced for such a chaste kiss. That familiar and pleasant smell that was Castiel's and his alone. Arms unnecessarily tight around him as if the grip was loosened even just a fragment Dean would float away without him.

 

Maybe it was necessary. It spoke of words did did not want to hear, of a fear he could not face.

 

Loneliness.

 

_But you're not alone_ , says the grace of the fallen angel underneath him, with chapped lips and burnt wings. _You're here with me_ , says the strong embrace and soft features on his unshaven face.

 

Undeserving.

 

_That is fine_. _I believe I am unworthy of you_. His lips part and tongue snakes again Dean's own lips, hoping for Dean to acquiesce. _But I am here. You allowed me to be and I thank you because... this is where I want to stay_.

 

Dean opened his mouth and drove down hard, tongue staking its claim. Castiel, quite caught off guard at the sudden vigor of the human, shot his eyes wide open, but as Dean grabbed onto his hair and stretched out his legs to completely put all of his weight on his body, Cas blissfully shut them once more and tried to keep up.

 

How far can it go? Further. It needs to go further. Dean doesn't care if he passes out: he needs to keep going. Can't stop. Need to keep Cas here. Mine. He's mine. He wants to be mine. Sloppy, wet, Dean didn't give a fuck about manners. He needed Cas.

 

With one hand in Cas's hair and the other holding his hand, the sensation of the angel's leg wrapped around his waist, Dean was gone.

 

The air conditioner continued its annoying song. Sam snored soundly on the other side of the wall, dreaming of nothing. Dean and Castiel sang the praises of each other but never themselves. But tonight they were together, completely and truly, sharing comfort no matter how temporary. There's always the morning and it will be as if this never happened: denial, loathing, joking, whiskey, resentment. That didn't matter. Right now, they had what they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright kids, to be clear, these two didn't have sex just now, but that does lead me to ask a question I'd like opinions on. Obviously they are headed on a one-way trip to Sexville, population 2. But I'm in a bit of a quandary.
> 
> I don't do sex.
> 
> For a couple reasons, I just feel so... uncomfortable writing it. As the stories progressed, I thought to myself “Oh no... why did I just box myself in doing this?” I just don't know, yall. Is this something I should practice first? TRY to write something short, read it over and see how I feel about it? I suppose I don't have to write really explicit stuff; I'll leave that to the talents who can.
> 
> So yeah. Anyone want to help a girl out?


End file.
